


Meeting

by lmeden



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-14
Updated: 2010-10-14
Packaged: 2017-10-12 16:10:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/126698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmeden/pseuds/lmeden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry receives an unexpected letter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Back to Hogwarts fest at snape_potter. Thank you so much to leela_cat, for that amazing and lightning-speed beta. Enjoy, everyone!

Harry has no idea how they came to this. He's not conscious of very much, at the moment. He's aware of his clenched fists, numb from loss of circulation, hanging stiffly at his sides. He feels blood pump madly through the rest of him, careening like an out-of-control auto race up and down his limbs, behind his eyes, and in his brain. He can't think clearly anymore – passion and anger have consumed him.

-

Last week Harry was sitting down to breakfast – the fried eggs that Ginny had thrown onto the stove and were slightly burnt as a result; the tall glass of milk that he always drank because he disliked orange juice – when an unexpected owl flew in. At nearly forty, Harry has settled into an easy routine of life, and so have his friends. Hermione writes him at least once a week with news of her unending research, her own life and her children. Ron includes his own letters with Hermione's, though he only writes twice a month or so. Harry always responds. Most of his other friends write on the weekends, when they have time, and so Harry receives multiple letters every Tuesday.

But it was Sunday when the letter arrived, near ten in the morning. Harry never, _never_ , receives letters then.

The owl was large and imposing, and Harry didn't recognize it. Gingerly he untied the parchment it carried and shot the owl a pointed look, which caused it to sit back and close the beak that had been reaching forward to nip Harry. As the bird sat impatiently, Harry unfolded the letter and read. It was from Professor McGonagall, or Headmistress McGonagall, as she had been known for almost twenty-five years.

Nothing was wrong, as he had immediately assumed when he saw the owl flying low, towards the house. The Headmistress wanted Harry to come to the school. She had something that she wanted to speak to him about. She didn't ask that, quite, but actually wrote a lot about the school grounds and the lackluster condition they were in and how she had been feeling rather lonely lately and had so little free time but perhaps she would find some leisure next Tuesday afternoon and hadn't it been a long time since she had seen Harry?

"What does it say?"

He turned to Ginny, who had nearly finished eating by the time that Harry had deciphered the Headmistress' note: "I'll be visiting Hogwarts next week."

After Harry ate, he took the parchment and quill that Ginny handed to him and wrote the Headmistress a reply, trying to be subtle as well. He wasn't sure why he attempted subtlety, except that such a cunning note shouldn't be replied to with a blunt, _I'll Floo in at 4_.

And that was how Harry came to visit Hogwarts.

* * * * *

Two hours ago, Harry Flooed straight into the Headmistress' office, managing to cough only slightly as he stumbled out of the fireplace. He swallowed against the tickling in his throat and straightened, looking for the Headmistress. She stood behind her desk, and as Harry watched she reached forward, grabbed a heavy robe from the back of her chair and swung it up and around her shoulders. As she fastened it at her throat, she sent a keen glance at Harry.

"I apologize, Mr Potter, but you're going to have to wait. Something has come up."

Harry blinked and nodded. As McGonagall swept past him, she paused, and reached out to lay a hand on Harry's arm. The briefest of smiles touched the corners of her eyes.

"Thank you for coming."

She moved forward and slipped out the door, down the stairs, and away. Harry smiled after her.

The woman really had mellowed over the years. Harry moved over to a comfortable chair placed in front of the Headmistress' desk, shaking soot from his robes as he moved. Then he turned and settled, content to wait.

It had been a long time since Harry had been in this room. He ran his gaze over the portraits on the walls. Some were watching him, and some seemed to find him completely unimportant. Within a few moments, their curiosity seemed to have been satisfied, and they went back to their personal conversations and books.

And then Harry saw him. He was watching Harry with a dark, intense glare, and Harry's breath caught.

Harry and Snape stared at each other, breathless. Harry's heart began to beat faster, and he swallowed. He didn't know how this man, after so many years, could provoke him so, and with just a look. When Snape's dark voice rolled through him, Harry didn't realize that the man had spoken, his reaction was so visceral and overpowering. He flinched back before he could think.

"Potter."

Harry closed his hand around the edge of the chair, gripping it tightly.

"Snape."

Harry was proud that his voice remained steady and low – that he could meet Snape's eyes without blinking. That painting – and Harry noticed, really _noticed_ , for the first time, that he was looking at a painting, and not a living man – shifted, and Snape's lips quivered before curling into a sneer.

It amazed Harry how, after so many years, Snape could still do that to him. Harry was on his feet, hands clenched into fists, before he knew it. Snape was sneering at him as if he were unimportant – a bug, or something less, to be squashed. Snape had stared at him like that when he was a child, and Harry had hated it. That the look hadn't changed, in nearly twenty five years, drove Harry mad.

Harry was the Head of the Auror Department. He had a happy family, with three children, one of whom he had named after Severus Snape. Harry was happy. His life was nothing like Snape's had been – desperate; his complete devotion to the cause the only thing keeping him moving, his absolute destitution in his own fortunes seeming to mean nothing to him at all. Snape couldn't be ignorant of this – not with McGonagall as Headmistress. And yet he appeared to think that all that Harry had worked for and achieved, was nothing.

All Snape did was sneer at him.

Harry very nearly pulled his fist back to punch the portrait square in the nose, but he took a deep, shuddering breath instead, and lowered his hand.

Then Snape turned away, shrugged his shoulders, and gazed at the collection of cauldrons around him. He reached for a stirring rod and muttered something that Harry barely caught. Something that sounded like _complete waste of time_.

At that, Harry snapped. He found himself directly in front of the painting, his hands lashing out and gripping the frame of the portrait, pulling it away from the wall at a precipitous angle the better for him to scream at Snape. And it felt good.

Harry felt a deep satisfaction rear its head within him as Snape turned to look at him, face slack and startled for the first time in Harry's memory, as Harry told Snape in words so loud and impassioned that they neared gibberish how much he hated him and how he wished beyond anything that Snape had lived so that Harry could have told him how much he hated him, and how Snape was a complete and utter fool and why did he have to die. He screamed and screamed until his words ran dry and could only shake Snape's painting, sending the man's cauldrons teetering and his potions splashing and Snape himself breathless and wide-eyed.

Finally, Harry ran out of breath and anger, and stuttered into silence. Then he glared. And after that he stared. His cheeks were flushed. His hair fell in thick, mussed strands around his eyes. His lips tingled where he had bitten them, and Harry thought distantly that they would be swollen later – as if he had been snogging. He felt wonderful. He wanted to smile at Snape – include him in the joke, in the uncommon and exceedingly brilliant high.

* * * * *

Now Harry stands at the window. He's tried clasping his hands together, but they remain restless. He avoids Snape's glare. He is waiting for McGonagall, desperately. He feels so alive. His heart beats fast in his chest. Excitement courses within him, and he wants nothing more than to say something to Snape. Something to provoke the man – to raise as strong of a response in him as Harry has raised within himself. Licking tender lips, he turns his head slightly and locks eyes with Snape.

The door cracks open behind their gaze.


End file.
